


Sirion

by ForestWren



Series: Feanorian Week 2020 [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Everyone's Favorite Kidnap Family, FeanorianWeek, Fire, First Meetings, Gen, Guilt, Hopeful Ending, It's the Third Kinslaying of Course There's Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestWren/pseuds/ForestWren
Summary: In which a Kinslaying ends, a building burns to the ground, and Maglor meets the twins for the first time.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur, Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur & Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: Feanorian Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677022
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35
Collections: Feanorian Week 2020





	Sirion

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Feanorian Week: Day 2 -- Maglor

Maglor leaned heavily against the building, blood dripping down his side from a gash across his left side. His sword lay abandoned on the cobblestones nearby — he had dropped there after he killed the last of the others, he remembered that. He would have to send one of his men to find it later. There was no need for it now. He was alone. He had sent the soldiers under his command to regroup with Maedhros and see to the wounded. The fishermen and refugees were dead. Elwing had jumped. The Silmaril had been taken into the sea and they could never recover it. 

No, he did not need his sword.

The pain from his wound was quite intense, he realized in a detached haze. Whatever had cut him must have had barbs. He should find a healer to see to it before it became infected. He sucked in a deep breath and began to stumble toward the sound of the other living elves.

He stumbled on something as he walked and nearly fell over. He must have been more weary than he had thought. He glanced down at his feet and noticed what it was that he had tripped on. A spark of recognition flared in his weary mind. He knew what that was for. That must have been what had given him his wound. It was one of the barbed spears that were sometimes used by fishermen to finish off a whale or a seal or a porpoise. It was a common design among seaside communities, invented by the Teliri. He remembered these. They had been used in Aman as well. In Alqualondë.

_The tang of blood filled the air and mixed with the smell of wet wood burning and the salty scent of the sea. They had burned the ships so none could escape. The smoke was rising up through the empty streets and choking the air and filling the streets with ash. There had been many ships. Much fire. The sea roared on unchanging in the background._

_Maglor shook his head, but it would not be cleared. Blood dripped down his hands and arms. The smoke was everywhere, choking him with that smell, that horrible, Valar-damned smell. He gasped for breath that did not seem to come. The air was dark. The sea swelled to a roar. He could hear nothing but that terrible unceasing scream of rage, rage for the deaths he had caused, fury at the craven murderers who befouled its shores with their presence. He could not escape. He could not tear himself away from the great waves screaming his guilt with a thousand voices. Nothing could stop it, nothing could escape its wrath. He and his family and all he loved would be drowned in its vengeful waters and no one would mourn them. The waves were buffeting him, tearing at him, beating him down into the dust—_

A beam fell from a nearby building and onto the cobblestones with a clatter. Maglor spun about with a cry, reaching for the sword that he no longer held. He froze, panting, and for a moment the sound of the waves receded and he could hear his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

He turned from the ocean and ran.

Elrond wasn’t moving. 

Elros couldn't wake him. Everything was wrong. It was all on fire and it was too bright and too hot and there was too much smoke and everything was falling and he couldn’t breathe. The ceiling was falling down on them and the walls were collapsing. The smoke and ash was choking the air out of him. He couldn’t leave. The bad elves had come and Naneth left. She told them to stay here no matter what. Then the fire had started and they couldn’t put it out because they had to keep hidden, and then it was everywhere and it was so hot and then Elrond had started to cough and now he wasn’t moving, _why wasn’t he moving?_

There was a crash. A beam fell from the ceiling and Elros barely managed to roll out of the way. He could tell that the building was not going to stay up for much longer. But Naneth said to stay here, and Elrond still hadn’t stirred at all-- 

The fire flared up with a giant crack and suddenly the heat was blinding. Elros choked back a sob that quickly changed to a wracking cough. They had to get out. If they stayed  
here they were going to die. 

He crawled out of their hiding place and dragged Elrond out after him. The door was across the room but he thought he could get there. Unless something fell and crushed him, or he was caught in the fire and died.

He gathered his courage and dashed across to the door. He seized the handle and immediately drew back with a cry of pain as the metal seared his palm. Tears blurred his vision and he desperately wiped them away. He had to open the door, they had to get out or the building would collapse and they would be burnt alive. He beat at the door with his fists. Nothing happened. 

They were both going to die.

His throat clenched with despair. He staggered over to his brother and dropped to his knees. He could not cry. All the tears had been scorched out of him. He had to stay quiet, Nana had said so, but if no help came then they were going to be burned alive. It was their only hope now. 

He drew in a choked breath and cried out for aid, hoping desperately that somebody, _anybody,_ would hear him.

Maglor ran and ran until his legs gave out. He sank to his knees in the bloody, ash-choked street, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

What had they done?

The city was ruined, blood-stained and burning. The paving-stones were covered with ash and the broken corpses of the slain. Only two days ago this street had been vibrant and alive, filled with hope and song. Now only the empty, silent, shattered husks of buildings remained. They were sole survivors of the Feanorions’ wrath.

So much death. So much suffering. And it had all been for nothing.

Elwing was gone. The Silmaril, their father’s great work and their only hope of redemption, the cause of so much agony for so many innocents, had drowned with her body.  
And now Sirion, one of the last refuges of hope, was dead and silent. There had been no survivors. Not one innocent life had been spared from their swords. 

Or so he had thought -- was that a child’s voice crying out?

Maglor stood and whirled around, listening frantically. All the residents had escaped or been killed, hadn’t they?

But they had, what in all Arda could be making that sound? 

Maglor stayed completely still for several more minutes, growing ever more certain as he listened. Either he was going absolutely mad, or there was a child trapped in that building. And that building was currently in the process of burning to the ground. 

The child was going to die.

There was no logical reason for Maglor to care about this. He had just invaded the city and slaughtered the residents, soldiers and civilians alike. It had likely been his men who had set the fire in the first place. If he let this child die, it would be no different from what he had done to countless others who had been killed by his actions in the past. If he were to act logically, he would simply walk away and rejoin his brother and what remained of their army. 

But that meant one more innocent life would be ended by his actions. One more needless death would be added to the thousands that already stained the land. One more drop of blood would fall on his hands filthy hands.

He could not simply walk away.

He sprinted across the street. The flames crackled and sparked as they ate away at the wood. The heat scorched his face as he neared the door. The smoke was choking the air and making it difficult to see anything. If he went inside, he might never come out.

The voice, now indisputably real, gave a last desperate cry and fell silent.

He took a deep breath and kicked down the door.

Sparks flared up as the wood collapsed inward. Heat seared at every inch of his exposed skin as he stepped inside. He did not care. The smoke and heat together were nearly blinding, but he could just make out the huddled forms of two small figures near the opposite wall. He rushed forward. The ceiling was slowly collapsing overhead, sending sparks and hot coals raining down on those below. He had to avoid multiple pieces of flaming furniture on his way to the figures. It was sheer luck that nothing collapsed on him before he managed to reach them. 

Coughing for breath, he picked them both up and sprinted for the exit. He maneuvered the fiery pitfalls as fast as he could, lunged out the doorway, and fell back into the light of day.

He just managed to drag himself and the children far enough from the building so as not to be in danger of it falling on them before he himself collapsed and fell to the ground. They lay on the cobblestones outside for a long while as coughs wracked Maglor’s frame. It was several minutes before his mind cleared enough for him to begin to think about the two figures he had just rescued. 

He looked over and saw them lying beside him. One was coughing as severely as Maglor had been, sucking in deep lungfuls of the clean air. The other was worryingly still. 

For a moment Maglor froze. His entire medical training consisted of what he had picked up on the battlefield. He had no idea how to revive someone after they had spent too long inside a burning building. The other child seemed to have noticed his companion’s silence as well. He gave a cry of despair and sat up, desperately shaking the other’s shoulder.

Miraculously, it seemed to work. The child gasped and drew in a deep breath, before he too began to cough violently. Relief flooded Maglor's heart and he let out a breath he had not known he was holding.

How had he come to care so much already?

He shook his head. Now was no time for reflection — he had to find Maedhros and the Ambarrussa. They would need to hear the news about Elwing. Perhaps Maedhros could help to locate proper medical care for these two sooty, coughing, but miraculously still-living children.

The two children who he had rescued. The two lives who had been prolonged by his actions, instead of violently cut short. 

Despite the darkness that was threatening to overwhelm all of them, he could not help a small smile at the thought.

**Author's Note:**

> This may be continued at some point, since I have some scenes with Maedhros that would fit nicely and I'm interested in continuing to explore M&M's relationship with the twins.
> 
> Comments and kudos would be greatly appreciated! :)


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